


Pride and Prejudice and Angels

by SanSanFanFan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Austen-esque, Badly most likely, Corsets are annoying, Dancing, M/M, Match-making abounds, Pre-Gavotte, Regency Era, balls!, female!Crowley, must be in want of a wife”, that a single angel in possession of a good fortune, “It is a truth universally acknowledged
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-09 12:35:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19887922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanSanFanFan/pseuds/SanSanFanFan
Summary: Hampshire, England, 1809Miss Crowley's plans for a small temptation near the South Coast go awry as she realises that Aziraphale is not only a guest of a neighbouring landed gentlelady but also suffering under some kind of malady.Match-making! Balls! Fainting! Happily Ever Afters???





	1. Mr Fell's Most Curious Hair

Hampshire, England, 1809

“A singularly disappointing man!” Amelia whispered as they worked together at their embroidery. “And such a dreadfully long afternoon!”

“And this was at Clairfield House?”, asked the young woman’s companion softly.

“Yes, for the strange morose man apparently enjoys the patronage of the very fine Lady Catherine Wexford, who has just this month returned there, for it is her southern estate to winter by the sea. I do hope that she knows about the terrible winter winds of the Solent that coming whipping up to the house!”

“She certainly must by now.”

Amelia laughed a little and then sighed wistfully, “Aunt Agatha wrote such wonderful words of praise about him and his great charity to her in her letters from London, and I had hoped that perhaps his company would at least be genial... well, he is not for me, dear friend! Oh no, not at all.”

“Do tell dearest, what kind of man might be for you?”, whispered her companion, moving a little closer in the hope of hearing a secret shared.

Amelia shook her head, the golden curls by her ears springing slightly with the movement as her smile returned. “You should not tempt me to speak of such things! It is not seemly.”

“There are only the two of us here, dearest friend. You can confide in me… as I am certain that someone must have caught those beautiful hazel eyes of yours? Or at the very least you must know the kind of man that might tempt you-”

“Ah Miss Crowley, I feel perhaps that there might be a deal at hand. Just let me know the colour of yours, as you know mine so very well it seems, and I shall let you know the nature of man I could admire…”

Crowley cursed under her breath. The girl was too damned clever by half! Certainly, too clever for this London man her Aunt had tried get her to tip her hat to. Far too clever for the random soldier that Crowley’s side wanted her to fall for as well! The soldier was bound to be just some walking pistol in tight breeches whose star was currently ascendant in the King’s armies. Distracted at just the right moment by just the right young lady and they could be tempted into an affair that would ruin careers. The whole job was rankling Crowley. She hated these kinds of temptations, they left a very foul taste in her mouth. Not least because the commander in chief of the King’s forces, Prince Frederick, the Duke of York himself, had ‘ten thousand’ mistresses of his own!

“My dearest Miss Balfour, I have explained my condition-” Crowley inches away from the girl’s intense stare, knowing that she is trying to peer beyond the smoked glass of the spectacles her companion in black satin wears.

“Come now, I think we both know each other well enough now to be truly honest with each other. Since the very first day that your carriage broke its axel by the gates to Bradlington, and we so quickly became the firmest of friends, I have suspected that there is more to your curiously hidden eyes than your tale of travels in India and a subtropical diseas-”

Crowley freezes her, stopping time with the smallest of gestures. She leans back on their shared couch, yanking very hard at the tops of her corset, and tries to allow her body some of the fluidity it misses.

“Satan damn this damned thing.” She mutters. A male corporation might have avoided some of this annoyance. But then it would have been next to impossible to get alone with Miss Balfour. Not without someone assuming that they were courting, and that would have messed up the introduction to the dumb soldier Crowley was engineering for the ball at Clairfield.

Irritation breeds impatience and Crowley resorts to a little bit of demonic ‘nudging’, lowering her spectacles to capture Amelia's eyes with her own yellow serpentine ones.

“Tell me pleassse, what kind of man might tempt you?” At the very least Crowley can find a soldier who might appeal to the girl!

“He would have to be kind.” She speaks in a slow, sleepy, voice.

Crowley frowns. The soldier is unlikely to be kind, especially given what fate will befall her after he has his way with her… the frown becomes a furious sneer. Satan damn everything, he hates these kinds of jobs!

Crowley straightens her back. It has to be done.

“What matter of… of… hair might attract you?” Crowley picks a feature out of the air.

“Dark. Very dark. Dark like a rich chocolate truffle…” She speaks as though in a dream, rambling a little. “Yes, dark. Not at all like Mr Fell’s most curious hair.”

Crowley blinks several times before being able to speak again. “Mr Fell? When did you see Mr Fell’s hair?!”

“At Clairfield, as I said. It was there at tea the other day that I was introduced to the very strange Mr Fell of 'A. Z. Fell and Co'… although after meeting him, I wonder who would voluntarily choose to be his ‘and Co’-”

“Aziraphale is at Clairfield?!” Crowley pushes his control of her mind a little further. Too far perhaps.

“Azira- Azirafell. Azirafail.” She mumbles. “Azirafair of hair.”

Crowley ends the control of the girl’s mind with a snap of her fingers, letting her swoon against the silk cushions of the couch. Eventually – after Crowley has sat there impatiently for a good eight minutes, unsure of whether to order up a carriage to take her to Clairfield right _now_ \- Amelia stirs, sitting up with a confused smile.

“What happened?”

“Oh, I think you were just a little sleepy. So, I have had some restoring tea brought by.” Crowley says, putting a kind smile on her lips. The fashion is for a natural face, but Crowley has always liked a darker, redder, lip. Amelia returns her companions’ smile with a little hesitancy and turns to look at the nearest table where, yes, there is in fact a tea set waiting for them. Although it might not have been there the second before she looked.

“Clairfield. Is it as grand as they say?” Crowley asks casually as they sip their tea.

“Oh yes, quite grand. They have more than two hundred-”

“And Mr Fell, what was he doing there?” She quickly interrupts.

“Moping, as far as I could see. I have never met a more sullen and quiet man in my life!”

Crowley is confused, “Very fair-haired man? Dresses in pale creams and whites? Fondness for desserts?”

“Oh good lord no! Well, you are correct about the hair and clothes, I suppose. But this Mr Fell wouldn’t touch a single morsel put before him! Neither sandwich nor cake!! Do you know of him, Miss Crowley?”

“I- I- perhaps I do not. Moping you say?”

“Oh yes. Something seems to have happened in London to lead him out to the country to his wealthy patron’s estate. And I have to say, the darkest of clouds has followed him here from there! Honestly, my dear, I did not hear more than the briefest of sentences out of him, no matter how Lady Wexford tried to engage him in our very pleasant conversation! He did not even clap after my turn on the pianoforte. And I am, if I might say so, a very accomplished player, as you yourself have often told me!”

Crowley didn’t even mentally pat herself on the back for encouraging this small flowering of pride in his young companion. She was too busy trying to understand what might have happened to the angel to have ruined cake and live piano music for him. This all required much more investigation.

Crowley feigned tiredness, “Would you mind if I retired?” She gestured with a shaking hand towards her glasses, “You know… my condition.”

“Oh, the lasting effects of the subtropical disease! It bothers you so very badly, you poor, poor, thing! Of course, I have told you, you simply must make yourself at home now that we are such good friends! Your room is comfortable I hop- oh, see you later.”

Amelia watched the disappearing back of her companion in black as Miss Crowley darted from the room in most un-lady-like haste.

She enjoyed Miss Crowley’s company immensely. But she had to admit that her new friend – and such a good, dear friend, and _so_ needed when she was so very isolated here at Bradlington… and so unwise to the ways of the world – was perhaps ever so slightly… _odd_.

“Almost as odd as Mr Fell!” She says out loud, laughing a little before sipping her tea. The most amusing thought then begins to grow in her mind. After all, embroidery could only hold a young lady’s attention for so long. But match-making… match-making was endless fun!


	2. A Turn About the Room at Bradlington

Crowley had been moments from deciding to shift her damned corporation into something a little 'busier' in the breeches area and hopping on the back of a horse - horrendous beasts! - to hightail it over to Clairfield when Miss Balfour had interrupted her thoughts by pushing a small cream coloured note over the breakfast table’s linens towards her.

Two days of increasing impatience had just passed, wherein the demon had thought through, and then promptly dismissed, all possible actions available to her as ‘Miss Crowley’. She had calculated, quite correctly, that she could not break the quite precise social etiquette of this - most annoying - era without also breaking her cover for Hell’s mission. Turning up announced and uninvited to Clairfield would have ended it all by casting her out from all respectable society. Of course, being cast out was hardly a new experience for Crowley. Nor was breaking the social norms of a dull and rigid society. But this job would go ahead with or without her, and the thought of somedemon like Hastur or Ligur taking over match-mak- _tempting_ Amelia, raised her hackles.

She also did not want to just ‘appear’ in Aziraphale’s rooms. It was not impossible of course, she had done that very thing when a ridiculously fancy-looking angel had popped over to France for some damned crepes during the Reign of Terror. But doing that sort of thing twice in sixteen years might draw attention from below…

So, a plan had begun to form with fully filled breeches and a horse. It was a madcap plan that she was still thinking of when she absent-mindedly took the note and scanned it with distracted eyes behind her smoked glasses.

“Are you not pleased, dear?” Asked Amelia sweetly.

“Pleased?”

“To have such a magnificent lady doing us this honour?”

Crowley squinted at the note and the elegant handwriting. “Ah, a visit for afternoon tea from Lady Wexford. Lovely” She said without much emphasis.

“She promises to bring along the interesting Mr Fell as well, do you not see?”

Crowley’s planning and scheming fell apart in her head with the news. But her pleasure at her… associate… coming to Bradlington and saving her the difficulty of making the trip to him was suddenly overshadowed by suspicion. Why had Miss Balfour had a change of heart about the angel? “Mr Fell? Don’t you mean the ‘bore of Clairfield’?”

“Ah, perhaps I was hasty in my initial assessment. And after all, my good opinion is not something that once lost, can be lost forever! I have since reread my aunt’s letters of him, and he was so very good to her when my uncle passed away. Helping her with his immense and disorganised library…”

“Helping himself to his books, more like,” Crowley muttered to herself.

“…And raising her funds when it turned out that Uncle Jonathan had been a little… incautious… with his investments during his life”

Crowley made a dismissive noise and looked again at the note from Lady Wexford. “They are to visit _this_ afternoon?” She found one of her hands betraying her, reaching up to touch the already neatly arranged dark red curls on her head.

“I can, of course, have some things of mine sent to your rooms if you’d like. I know that you were travelling, before our serendipitous meeting at the gates of Bradlington, with the very simplest of dresses and accompaniments.”

Crowley tried not to frown at the suggestion that her clothes were not of the fashion. “Ah, no, I am sure I have something suitable for tea with a grand lady and a bookseller.”

Crowley did not in fact have any clothes with her, just some empty and oddly heavy trunks. Everything she wore was manifested to her needs, as it had always been. Which is why it might have been difficult to explain to any observer the immense amount of time that it took her to manifest just the _right_ dress for the afternoon. With patterns from the best fashion houses of the time in both London and Paris available to her at the snap of her fingers, it really shouldn’t have taken the best part of the later morning to find a dress that both stated her natural elegance and immense wealth, while making it abundantly clear that Crowley had put no effort in to the decision at all.

Eventually, though she had to make a decision as a maid came to tell her that Bradlington’s guests were now arriving up the long drive. Their buggy was visible through the tall windows of Crowley’s guestrooms, the cover down and showing a grey-haired woman with a hawk nose and a smartly dressed man in a white top hat sat facing each other.

Crowley curtseyed politely when introduced to Lady Catherine Wexford and Mr A. Z. Fell in the great entrance hall of Bradlington, and was relieved when the great lady skipped over her 'condition' and her odd glasses out of politeness. She did, however, watch for the angel’s reaction to her presence and was surprised to find Aziraphale strangely… blank, and unsurprised at the presence of his long-term opponent, his eyes dull and grey as though some sadness prevented him from reacting. Female or not, Crowley was going to find a way to get to the bottom of the angel’s odd malady!

Amelia’s mother, Lady Balfour, joined them too, apologising for the absence of her husband as he was on House of Lords' business that meant he could not show Mr Fell the new reservoir, nor take him shooting for the whole afternoon.

“Oh, that is a shame, isn’t it, Mr Fell?” Prompted the older Lady Wexford, giving the angel an encouraging smile.

“A shame, yes.” He said flatly.

“Miss Crowley, are you perhaps related to the Manchester Crawley’s?” Lady Wexford continues, trying to make up for her companion’s morose response as they walk into the large parlour where tea has been set out for them.

“Ah, no, I think not. Crawley is a quite different name to _Crowley_.” The demon smiles but she is still distracted by the angel who has sat down and already refused the offer of a slice of Victoria sponge from Amelia. He sips his tea politely, but without any great interest in it.

“And you are visiting Bradlington for a while?” Lady Wexford asks lightly.

“As long as my new friend will allow me to.”

Amelia smiles and pours a cup of tea for her. “As long as you wish, my dear.”

There is a slight flinch of surprise from the angel at Amelia’s words. _Oh yes, Aziraphale, others call me ‘dear’ as well_ , Crowley thinks pointedly. But apart from that movement, Mr Fell is still blank of face and bland of conversation.

“How goes your book shop Mr Fell?” Asks Lady Balfour, “Amelia mentioned you opened eight years ago now?”

“Nine,” Aziraphale says flatly, barely lifting his eyes from his teacup. “Nine years.”

“And the book market is… good?” Lady Balfour is out of her depth talking about ‘trade’ and ‘earning a living’, but she is trying to be a good hostess.

“Good enough.”

Crowley can’t take any more! Something is very wrong with the angel and she has to do something. She quickly goes through her options in this social situation. “Lady Wexford, perhaps you will take a turn with me about the room? I have read that moderate exercise after small meals is good for the constitution.”

“Of course!” The older woman gathers up her walking stick and the two of them make a very odd pair, walking slowly about the room, arm in arm. Lady Wexford leans in and whispers conspiratorially, “Although, a turn about the room also allows a young lady’s figure to appear to the greatest advantage, I think.”

“I see that you are a woman of the world, Lady Wexford.”

“I’ve had my moments, dear girl. A long time ago, admittedly.”

“Then can I speak boldly?”

“You wish to be alone with Mr Fell? Yes, I have seen your interest in my good friend since we arrived. Worry not, I am not scandalised!”

Crowley is however on a back foot. Had she been looking at Aziraphale so much? Yes, she was a little worried about his morose turn… In recent meetings he had either been annoyingly unphased by waiting in chains for his beheadment, or gleeful about the opening of his shop - even in the face of a visit by that bastard Gabriel! To see the angel turned grey by some worry had made Crowley worry also. But it was not more than that…

“Allow me to help.” The lady says, “For Mr Fell is a single man… as well as a singular man… of some wealth and position. Worry not about his bookshop. I feel it is much more a hobby than a ‘trade’” She almost shudders at the word, “And I would be pleased to see him married to a suitable young woman.”

Crowley’s mind stutters. She had only intended to orchestrate a quiet meeting alone with Aziraphale, not bloody well get hitched to him! And this woman barely knew ‘Mr Fell’ if she thought this corporation – no matter the loveliness of the dress she was wearing, and it _was_ lovely – held any interest for him!

“I think, dear, for all of Mr Fell’s recent sadness, he might indeed be taken with you as well!”

Crowley puts that thought to one side for a moment, “Can I ask Lady Wexford, what do you know of that sadness?”

“Little, if anything. He simply wrote asking if he might also spend the winter out of town with me at Clairfield. What happened in London to make him feel so, I do not know.”

Their turn had brought them back towards the others who were lightly discussing some trivialities about the weather on the South Coast.

“Mr Fell?” asks Lady Wexford.

“Hmm?” He answers, distracted and not even really listening.

“I was just telling Miss Crowley about the wonders you have been working in the library in Clairfield. I have insisted that she join us for the trip back and stay a little to see how organised you have made it. Is that acceptable to you as well Miss Balfour, that we steal your guest away for a little while? I assure you that we will return her well in time for the ball at Clairfield so that you might have your companion escort you from Bradlington to my home for the evening.”

“Oh, of course, I don’t mind.” Amelia beams and Crowley’s earlier sneaking suspicion about her motivations regarding her and Mr Fell begins to blossom and bloom into full-blown panic. Uh oh. “I would be very pleased if Miss Crowley were to spend time at Clairfield with your Ladyship… and Mr Fell.”

“And what do you say, Mr Fell?”

Crowley watches Aziraphale slowly raise his dulled eyes and finally look towards Lady Wexford. “I have not the pleasure of understanding you?”

“I mean to say that we shall have the delightful Miss Crawley to stay with us.”

“Its Crowley.” Aziraphale corrected her automatically, before softening his response. “My lady.”

“Of course! So sorry Miss Crowley!”

“It is no matter,” Crowley muttered but then she felt the squeeze of Lady Wexford’s hands on her arm. _See,_ it was saying, _see he notices you too!_

Aziraphale looked from Lady Catherine Wexford to Crowley, and the two of them finally acknowledged either other as what they really were, their essences greeting their old associates in the ether about the room. It was then that Crowley ‘saw’ the angel’s wings, out of the range of normal human sight but as clear as the rest of the parlour to the demon. Singed and dusted with soot, they hung so low. Dejected and sorrowful.


	3. In the Library Without a Chaperone

“… and then it was really just a case of finding volumes thirteen to sixteen. After some hunting about the house, I found that they had been placed underneath the legs of a pianoforte in the third parlour… to even them up you see. The damage was minimal, so I have restored this row of books to their right order. And then I was drawn to completing the listing and archiving of the hundred and seven pamphlets from the East Anglian Society of Herpetologists. Of course, I found some of those within the boxes were actually from the Norwich Society of Entomologists-”

“Oh, so very amusing!” Trills Lady Wexford, nodding towards Miss Crowley as the two of them stand on increasingly tired legs amidst the slightly more ordered chaos of the library of Clairfield. “Sir Roger is so thrilled with all the work you have already managed to do on his collection, Mr Fell.”

Mr Fell takes the first breath he has taken in a long while during his explanation of his cataloguing – something else for Crowley to bring up with him later on! – and gives her a slight smile before trying to launch into another description of the details of his new system. “And there is, of course, some debate between the fundamentalist Deweyians and the newer schismatic groups about the correct decimal ordering of-”

Crowley lets the angel’s droning words flow over him, focussing instead on Aziraphale’s tense pallid face and his drooping ash mired wings. She knows full well that he is trying to fill up all the afternoon with ‘Deweys’ and ‘Decimals’ so there is no space left for Crowley to ask questions in. He is polite, of course. She has had nothing but Aziraphale’s cold politeness since arriving, the two of them standing in the great hall for chilled moments of civility before Lady Wexford had suggested a tour of the library, to Mr Fell’s relief.

Miss Crowley fiddles a little with the button clasp of her gloves. She has had enough of this game!

“Ah, would you please excuse me, I believe I must speak with Cook about dinner.” Lady Wexford takes the signal and makes her excuses. The old dame is a wily one, Crowley admits.

“B-b-but Lady Wexford, we have no chaperone!” Stutters the angel, and Crowley nearly hisses at the attempt to stop her.

“Oh, I am not worried. I know that you are a man of eminent sensibility! And Miss Crowley looks to be full of good English common sense! And I shan't be long!”

 _Be long enough!_ urges Crowley, before turning her gaze back to Mr Fell after Lady Wexford has closed the fine oak doors behind her.

“W-w-well, perhaps then Miss Crowley you might allow me the honour of showing you L-l-lord Wexford’s etchings?-”

“What the bloody hell is going on here, angel!” Crowley snaps, no longer able to control her concern. “What happened to your wings! Are you hurt?!” She movers closer, gloved hands moving to touch his feathers where she can see them in the ether. He shuffles back, putting a map table between them.

“Please don’t, Crowley.” He says, his voice stricken. “Let us speak of other things. You look lovely, do you know?”

“Of course I look bloody lovely!” Crowley snaps, “That’s the whole point of this damned era! Women look lovely and men- Oh no you don’t! Do not try to get me ranting about the corsets and the bonnets!”

“But you used to like a corset,” Aziraphale tries again to distract her, “And you always look good-”

“Angel!” Crowley snaps, allowing a flash of demonic fire to spark from her eyes.

“Not fire, Crowley!” Aziraphale breathes heavily, paling even more. “Please, not fire.”

She steps about the table before he can stop her, and clasps his hands in hers before whispering softly. “What happened?”

“You’ll laugh.” He says in a strangled voice.

“Never.” She promises. Have they ever stood this close? Has the angel ever looked back at her with such naked despair on his face?

“The Theatre Royal.” He breathes out the words, wincing in remembered pain.

“The one in Drury Lane?”

“The same. It burned down Crowley.”

A frown creases her brow, and the angel misunderstands her reaction for just a moment.

“I knew you would think me foolish. Its just a theatre of course. There are many more besides it-”

She acts before she knows what she is doing.

His two hands are already in hers, and it is all too easy to bring them to her lips and to kiss him on the soft skin on the back of them. Men have been doing this to her female corporation since she started wearing it. And up until now it’s been just another hollow meaningless ritual of this era. But when she kisses the angel’s hands she allows him to see the unfurling of her own wings, and to watch as she draws them around the two of them.

“It meant something to you, angel.”

“It's not just that.” Aziraphale looks pained. “There was also the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. That burnt down last September. Twenty poor lost souls, Crowley! I left London before finding out the toll for the latest fire.” Pale eyes look up into hers. “But this time I tried… I tried…”

The smoke and ash in his feathers, Crowley realises. “You ran in. Of course you did!”

“But… but… Sandalphon was already there Crowley. And I… I don’t think that he was trying to _help_.”

There is a cracking sound as a marble column nearby cracks under the demonic force that suddenly whips about the room as Crowley’s eyes blaze yellow even through her glasses. “What was that wanker doing?!”

The word probably jarred horribly, coming as it did from the mouth of an up until now perfectly respectable looking red-haired gentlewoman in a black bodice and long skirts. But Crowley only doubled down, following it up with a bunch of robust curses in the old tongues that knocked paintings off of the wall and sent more sparks skittering across the bookshelves.

“Please Crowley, no more fire!” Quaked Aziraphale.

She took a few deep breaths. “So, let me guess, burning the theatres was all a part of Her bloody plan!”

“I don’t know. I didn’t stay. I packed a bag that night and headed to Hampshire. But it all has t be a part of Her plan, mustn’t it?”

Crowley finally removes her hands from Aziraphale’s – finding herself momentarily sad for the loss of contact but putting that thought aside for now – and sighs deeply. “I’m not sure the opinion of a demon is going to bring you much solace, angel.”

“Ah, no. Perhaps not.” Aziraphale’s wings sag a little more, even as he braves a smile. “But it is definitely good to see a friendly face during my… little sabbatical.”

Crowley wants to smile back, but she feels oddly tangled up inside by the angel using the words ‘good’ and ‘friendly’ about her.

“And I do rather like your hair and its little curls. Even if it _is_ another product of the rigid social expectations of this time.”

“Oh la, sir! You will make blush!” She puts on the fluttering idiocy she’s seen some of the women play at in their flirtations with gentlemen. “Do you talk to all the ladies in such a way?”

“I am afraid your good friend Amelia Balfour found me quite dull. Is she why you are here? I assume that you are ‘working?”

“Just a small temptation.” Crowley is loath to talk about it, but finally, there is interest shining in the angel’s eyes again. And she’d rather he be paying attention to thwarting her, than thinking on the consequences of angels burning down theatres. She might not like his side, but she would rather play the simpering lady than have him… fall. “Nothing that a respectable gentleman should pay any attention to. The scandals of the home counties must be so below your concern…”

“Oh, wily old serpent,” Aziraphale breathes, his wingtips perking up ever so slightly. “Do not think that I am so distracted by the complex and time-consuming issues of this library that I will not face you down!”

“I’d like to see you try!” Crowley retorts, before adding, “At the ball next week. Where I will definitely be. For the punch and dancing and doing absolutely nothing else that should be thwarted.”

“Ah, I see your cunning plan, old adversary.” Aziraphale is smiling again, but this time it reaches his beautiful shining eyes, even as he barks in apparent rage. “I will certainly be there!”

“Then I will keep my dance card free!”

They pause, breathing a little more heavily than either of them expected, suddenly aware that they’ve moved closer to each other during their ‘confrontation’, and that Crowley has just promised Aziraphale a turn about the dance floor. Perhaps even more than one.

“Um, do angels actually dance?” Asks Crowley, “I mean, I know that demons do, and really well, but then we have all the good musicians down there…”

“Uh, no, not really I suppose,” Aziraphale admits. “But to be clear, were we talking about dancing or fighting? I think I kind of got confused a bit there.”

“Well, as I am presently female I think a fight might be a little conspicuous. I could change I suppose, and we could have a little duel. Do you remember the one back in good old Bess’s time? You ended up spearing that poor defenceless tree?”

“What was that about again?”

“Oh, probably just a bit of a show for upstairs.” Crowley leans languidly against a bookshelf, crossing her arms and smiling. “A bit of sabre-rattling for the pencil pushers. We could try that again, I’ll just have to slip into something a little more moustached-”

“I wouldn’t… I mean, unless you want to… I wouldn’t necessarily say that you should change your corporation. Unless you want to.” Aziraphale blusters.

“You know angel, that’s probably the best compliment I’ve had since putting this old thing on again.” She straightens her skirts with false modesty and sadness.

“I can’t believe that!” Aziraphale exclaims, before realising he’s being duped. “Ah, now, we can’t stay in the library all day listing the reasons why you are an enchanting creature.”

“Oh, we can’t?” Crowley pouts. “Shame.”

The angel captures her eyes with his own, this time being the one to reach for her hands. “There is simply not time enough, not even the millennia of eternity, to speak words to each and every single one of your perfections. The light of love. The purity of your grace. Your mind. The Music breathing from your face. Your heart whose softness harmonises the whole…”

“Oh.” Even Crowley is rendered speechless for a moment. But only a moment.

“Wait a minute! You’ve been hanging out with that young Byron! I recognise his turn of phrase!”

Aziraphale got away with his, ever so slightly un-angelic, smirk as at that very moment the gong for dinner sounded out through the halls of Clairfield.


	4. Good Night, Miss Crowley

Dinner passes all too slowly for Crowley as the silences the angel and the demon cannot fill with truthful conversation are far too damned large. At least the Lady of Clairfield is quickly put at ease that Mr Fell’s red-rimmed eyes are only caused by the dust in the library. Crowley sips her soup and wishes the minutes away, counting them just as she is counting the very few bites of his dinner that Aziraphale is taking.

Finally, _finally_ , Lady Wexford makes her excuses and retires. Of course, of course, Miss Crowley has to depart as well, leaving the pre-occupied Mr Fell to the boorish company of the pipe-smoking Lord Wexford in the men’s parlour, along with some yellow-stained playing cards and some of the cheaper brandy.

Back in her rooms, she paces. And curses.

She stops before the wallpaper really begins to curl, but she can’t put the image of the unctuous Sandalphon standing proud in the damned theatre, razing the place with fire and glee as the angel rushes about, trying to save costumes and programmes. No, no, _no._ Aziraphale would have been desperately searching for _humans._ He would have been singeing his long white wings as he dashes up to the ‘gods’, peering desperately under velvet-covered chairs as ash and embers rain down like hell’s own rain.

Crowley hisses, his eyes flaring yellow as the beast stirs inside. Gloved hands rip at the ties of his dress. She could summon a maid to help or miracle it all away as is usual, but she enjoys the rip of the dress as she peels it off herself, leaving her standing in just her small things and her anger.

A mirror in the guest room shows her standing in full Amazonian rage. Oh, this is very much not a proper lady of the era. This lady would never carefully decide between buttered bread and cake at high tea. This lady would not flutter and fuss at a soldier’s less than subtle glance. _This_ lady could not be stopped if she wished to visit a gentleman in his rooms…

She stops herself. Getting thrown out of Clairfield, and by extension, Bradlington, will leave Amelia alone to deal with the demonic intentions currently focussing on her. But where Miss Crowley cannot go, a servant might.

Crowley shivers as she resets and shifts the few small cues to her gender, running hands over flattening hips and breasts, and smirking as she summons a white wig and a valet’s vest and coat. The mirror shows her… him… a nondescript fellow, one that might pass unnoticed in corridors and hallways. One that might be able to get all the way to Aziraphale’s rooms without an alarm being sounded.

He’s right of course. With just a bit more padding in his breeches, he’s invisible among the other servants swiftly and quietly at their work about the great house. Knocking at Mr Fell’s door, he puts on his best servile voice.

“Sir. Can I attend on you?”

“No. No, please. I will undress myself tonight. I do not need a valet.”

Crowley reddens. In all his cleverness, Crowley hadn’t thought at all about what Mr Fell might be up to when he finally managed to get to his rooms.

“Sir. Please, can I come in?”

“I have my boots off, and I can manage the rest!” Aziraphale chirps, trying to put him off.

“Damnit, angel, let me in!” Crowley hisses. Seconds later Mr Fell is at the doorway. He still has his boots on.

“They’re a bit stuck.”

“So you do need help… Mr Fell?”

“Come in, Williams!” Aziraphale says too loudly, for the benefit of… nobody. “I need a valet’s help. And you are a valet! Williams! Williams the valet!”

Crowley slinks in, casting a wry smile at the angel for his loud-mouthed attempt at secrecy. He lounges onto Aziraphale’s bed as he stands awkwardly, fingers twisting into each other over his belly. “Calm down angel, I have the requisite parts to be in your room late at night. Although, given what two healthy, consenting, male humans can get up to with those parts when so inclined, I don’t quite understand the fuss about only keeping women to their proper places-”

“Crowley!”

“You disapprove?” Crowley knows he doesn’t, but he enjoys seeing the red flush on the angel’s cheeks. And besides, it distracts from the red that bloomed on his own when he realised Mr Fell might need his help to undress.

“Why are you in my rooms, Crowley?” The angel tries to redirect the question.

Crowley frowns and scratches absent-mindedly under the wig, before flinging it across the room. “Horrible things. Hmmm?”

“I asked why you have visited my rooms so late at night?!”

“Oh, I didn’t think that we got a decent chance to talk earlier. Dinner with Lady Wexford is hardly the place to be chatting about angels and theatres and-”

“I don’t want to talk about that, Crowley. There’s nothing to said or to be done.” Aziraphale looks away and Crowley squints to see his wings in the ether again. They couldn’t be lower. Or dirtier, at that.

“Fine. We won’t talk. But your valet is here now, and I see that I have quite a few things to be doing for Mr Fell.”

Aziraphale stutters and fusses, but Crowley stands and walks closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down angel. Boots first?”

Mr Fell merely nods and allows the red-haired valet to lead him to the bed. Allows him to settle him on the bed and to kneel by his feet to try to pull off his knee-high soft brown leather riding boots. As though Mr Fell rides!

“Good Sata- good grief, angel. Are these welded on!” He raises his hand to click his fingers and miracle them away.

“No! You’ve almost got them!”

Crowley looks up over Mr Fell’s knees and sees the glow of his bright red face. Oh. A wicked thought arises. Well, he is a demon.

“And then, of course, I will draw you a bath.”

“A bath?”

“Surely sir cannot think to go to bed with his wings in such a state.”

“Crowley.” His name catches painfully in the angel’s throat, and Crowley can feel him tensing up at the reminder of the theatre and the fire.

“It’s _Williams_ , sir,” Crowley says firmly. “Here to help sir to undress and ready for bed.” This time he does click his long fingers together and a claw-footed ceramic bath appears in the middle of the room, full of hot, lavender-scented water.

“There’s already a bath in the antechamber. You could have just filled it-”

“Oh hush angel, or I’ll miracle your clothes away myself!” Crowley clicks his fingers again and a paper screen covered in Japanese cherry blossom trees appears in front of the bath, and candles burst into flame on silver holders around the room.

“Like the one in Kyoto! You remembered!”

“Does sir need me to help me with the rest of his apparel?”

“Uh, no,” Aziraphale says quickly and disappears behind the screen. A moment later the sound of water being displaced lets Crowley knows he’s got in.

Crowley stands by the edge of the screen, hesitating. Bravado lost at the angel actually bathing. Silly really, in Kyoto they’d gone to the onsens. In Rome they’d spent more time in the baths than almost anywhere else – the restaurants being an exception. But the angel’s bared vulnerability was doing something strange to Crowley. But Williams… Williams had a job to do.

“Sir, I’m coming back there.”

“You are?”

“I think sir needs his wings groomed.”

Silence. And then the whispering sound of immense primaries unfurling into the space around the tub. “That would be acceptable, Williams.”

“Very good sir.”

Crowley turns the corner, and a vision in pink, white, and gold awaits him. Yes, Aziraphale’s wings have seen better days, but while wallowing in the bath and lit by the candlelight the angel fairly _glows_. Crowley… Williams… manifests a small wooden stool and sets himself up behind Aziraphale, between his wings, and assesses the damage. A few feathers have been singed to the shaft, but most are just stained with the ashes of the theatre. They smell of burnt velvet and melted greasepaint. So, starting at Azriaphale’s back where the wings emerge from his soft pink skin, and, careful to only touch the wings, he works his fingers and some manifested honeycomb soap through every shaft and vane.

“Oh.” Murmurs Mr Fell. “Oh! Um, Williams, are you interested in libraries?” 

Crowley frowns but doesn’t stop at his task. “Libraries, sir?”

“You see, most people think the key thing is to organise alphabetically, but there are other systems which are actually more intuitive…” Aziraphale drones on in a flat monotone, laying out the variety of theory on book sorting. If he wasn’t as busy as he was with the numerous feathers that need cleaning and drying and laying flat, Crowley is certain he’d be drifting off. Is… is Aziraphale trying to distract himself from Crowley’s preening of him?

“There we go sir, I think we’ve fixed them up really nicely.” He’s making an understatement. Between the soft soap and his own knack with grooming, Aziraphale’s feathers are gleaming so brightly that Crowley is glad of his glasses cutting off even a small part of that brightness.

“Splendid. Thank you, Williams.” Aziraphale says shortly, before pausing.

“Will that be all this evening?” Crowley manifests a dressing gown, again in the Japanese style – a few decades before the so-called Orient really makes its impact on English leisure fashions, to be fair – and steps back as he holds it out for Mr Fell to get into after his bath.

But the angel stays in the water, his wings flexing and shaking off a few small drops of water. “Crowley. Thank you.”

“It was no matter, sir… angel.”

“It's nice to see you here, Crowley. I hope we can spend time together, even if you have your mission?”

“Well, of course, you have to thwart me.”

“No, I mean that… if you are a woman and I am a man it is a little awkward.”

“There is the Ball. And, if I can say so, sir, you now look a lot more presentable for an evening of high fashion and high gossip.”

Aziraphale laughs a little, and it is the first time since he’s seen the angel here. And it’s the best sound he can imagine.

“Come on sir, the water will get cold.” He shakes the dressing gown a little, and then politely averts his valet eyes as his charge emerges from the scented water and dresses in it, evaporating the water with a thought.

They stand awkwardly for a moment, pretend servant and pretend master, unsure of whether to drop their disguises for the night or to continue to play society’s game.

“Breakfast tomorrow then?” Asks Miss Crowley eventually.

“I look forward to it, my dear.” Mr Fell smiles warmly. “And perhaps we might also take a turn about the gardens in the afternoon. Lady Wexford can join us.”

“Her legs are old, Mr Fell. But I am sure a suitable chaperone can be found.” Crowley plonks the white wig back on his head and bows deeply. “Good night, Mr Fell.”

“Good night, Miss Crowley.”


End file.
